A Horrific Tale of the Phantom's Accursed Chamber
by RachyBaby09
Summary: Sensual, desperate & morbid. Like a Siren's seductive song, many were tempted to Erik's music. And like the cursed sailors, they met devastation & death. Twisted EC TWO-SHOT, with reference to "Bluebeard" & a theory for Erik's dead wives.
1. His Legend, her Curse

_a/n: A dark & desperate POTO variation. Erik's characterization follows Leroux. _

_The plot is a combination of the 1989 horror adaptation, and the 'Tale of Bluebeard.' Also will include a theory behind the meaning of Erik's "dead" wives. You might want to keep in mind, when reading, it contains some 'supernatural' elements._

_Warning: contains tons of sexual references and some violence_…_but in good taste! (I hope!)_

_Please drop some feedback for me…and, most importantly…enjoy!_

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_"Having come to the closet door, she made a stop for some time, thinking about her husband's orders, and considering what unhappiness might attend her if she was disobedient; but the temptation was so strong that she could not overcome it. She then took the little key, and opened it, trembling._

_At first she could not see anything plainly, because the windows were shut. After some moments she began to perceive that the floor was all covered over with clotted blood, on which lay the bodies of several dead women, ranged against the walls._

_She thought she should have died for fear, and the key, which she, pulled out of the lock, fell out of her hand."_

_- Bluebeard, Charles Perrault_

A Horrific Tale of the Phantom's Accursed Chamber: Part I - His Legend, her Curse

As the legend has it, not much was known about the loathsome cloaked figure, nor the terrors which lay beyond the mask. Or rather: those damned few whom had the horror of knowing, had not lived beyond the chateau's star-crossed walls to speak their grisly tale—for, she who looks beyond the mask, looks upon Death, himself.

The chateau was a grand one—furnished more finely, decked with more luxury and splendor, than the noblest king's castle. It was within the throes of the darkest dark which the haunted palace resurrected, letting itself be known to the living. It is said, amongst men, that an equally lovely melody would so often swell the chateau's lonely corridors and arched domes. For one, alluring hour—once every six years, it is claimed—this Hell, which was imprisoned within the most ragged and menacing of cliffs, would vanish into the silk of Heaven.

A voice—a voice, so exquisite, so charming and wonderfully divine, fit only for the purest of angels—accompanied the music in flawless symphony. It was deception at its greatest: the work of a true illusionist, the slight of hand impossible to discover.

Though, victim to ignorance and vain, many did try. The human race—namely its women—are inquisitive and curious creatures by nature. It is their mortal curse.

* * *

The enchanting melody resonated far beyond the chateau's blackened halls, up…up into Apollo's Lair, and further yet…burying itself deeply within the forsaken womb of the underworld, ravaging and exploiting all living things…erotically spilling its essence into the surrounding night. The euphoric and magical sighs of music overflowed the towering sea cliffs like a sensual waterfall, descending unto the Parisian, cobblestone walkways.

Music, such as this, proved a curse to any lady unlikely enough to set her ears upon it. It held so much romance and love within its soulful arias, making it irresistible to naïve mortals. Over the strange decades, women were drawn to its seductive hum, as moths are to the promising heat of the flame. Pitifully believing she was blessed, ladies succumbed to the music's fiery call, mindlessly and time and time again—invading its master's chateau, his domain—crossing the threshold to Death's door—only to be eternally doomed. Yes; such symphony beckoned and seduced ladies, just as the Siren's call tempts sailors to devastation and death.

Such a passionate and powerful calling was not suited for the living. No. It was a dangerous game he dared play. Upon entering the haunted chateau, she had immediately fastened an unspoken deal with Satan's right hand. The dark and saddened figured, whom loomed over his organ, shed no mercy upon his captives. They were his baited prey.

A young girl (one of so many) answered to him one night.

The chateau's menacing guards, Gothic gargoyles, carved from black slate, all scowled down at the girl; she, their loathsome master's freshest prey. The black sockets, which served pitifully as eyes, traced her every hesitant step, every delicate move. Each and every shallow breath and pant…

So patiently, the gargoyles waited in vain for the girl to fall; they ached to drag her to Hell.

Though, she swore…every so often…one of those guarding shadows would move…a gargoyle's terrible eyes seemed to ignite, setting ablaze, flickering like the hungry flames of Hell. They were hungry, indeed; most all the chosen ones were immaculately beautiful. The Gargoyles blushed.

Her heels clicked charmingly, whilst she wandered the winding corridors, lost in oblivion and music, deeper and deeper…down the stairwell's slight curve, and plunging into the chateau's deepest dungeon. Her pretty features flushed at the indecent thoughts and raw sensations arising within. The music was nothing short of intriguing, and she ached to pursue its master. She was shameless.

The enthralling music grew in might with each ill-gotten step she took, lifting the distressed damsel's soul, carrying her feet to its master.

It was there, in a room's most despairing and ungodly corner, which she would unlawfully wed her new creator. No; her master never turned towards her pacing footsteps once…nor meet her widened and lit eyes, as the erratic breathing came upon him. Then, the pleasant warmth—her pleasant warmth—drew closer…closer…now, dangerously close…

In sensual response, his music gained in pitch and splendor, the pull irresistible and arousing. She, soon, stood just over his shuddering shoulder, only as a statue might, her ravaged breathing scorching the master's neck. He was a magnificent creature, indeed. So very thrilling. She arched slightly forward, and to her amazement, the ghost tensed at her presence. Her lashes fluttered and cheeks reddened. Those quivering lips parted in a newly acquired ecstasy, and she sealed her fate: 'Don Juan Triumphant'.

"Don Juan Triumphant," she breathed, spellbound.

His hunched form swayed in a seductive dance, entwining as one with his genius. The Phantom would huskily, simply, request to the trespasser, "Sing."

A tragedy: as lovely and pure that the music was (and it very much was), its composer was equally hideous and tainted, if not more so. His music, the very compositions of Satan, was designed only for the likes of an angel. His Angel of Music.

She shut her eyes, flesh tingling…succumbing and sacrificing mind, body, soul…descending into a foreign realm of sensuality and forbidden desires. At this tender moment, a few Catholic girls had crossed themselves in vain.

"Sing," he commanded, voice now dangerously sharp. How could one word—such a simple, such a plain word—hold so much unbridled passion?

Obeying her master's wish, she sang out her soul, for him alone. And, in every sense, she truly had sung out her heart and soul; in a matter of moments, she had been drained of all life.

No.

"ENOUGH!"

The shadow snarled, pounding a maddened fist atop his organ's keys. _Don Juan Triumphant_ flew from its perch, seemingly spooked by its unhappy creator, spinning down to his boots. It sat and waited there, as a dog clings beside her master's heel, gazing up at him through large and doe-full eyes. He rose in a deft motion. A hauntingly graceful motion.

His wide back dipped and raised, dipped and raised, in shallow pants, patience coming scarce. Between those straining breaths and his tightly wound posture, one might believe the Phantom to be recovering from a heated session of lovemaking. Perhaps, he was, though any makings of love had not been mutual.

"No…no," the man nearly sobbed, his humanity unmasked.

She was no angel. She was, too ridiculously, one of the human race; he didn't care for them…the slightest bit. Erik embodied no patience for any such creature.

His devastatingly masculine figure stayed averted from those prying eyes. Those pure and unblemished eyes, eyes that had witnessed only goodness…eyes he'd robbed of all innocence! Damnation, the Phantom fantasized. Could he dare gaze upon such rare innocence? For, surely, she'd absolutely die beneath his twisted stare! No; Erik couldn't swallow back an inward snicker of self-satisfaction; after the embrace of his burning music, she was far from innocence.

Finally…he turned round menacingly in a fluid motion, cloak hissing a foreboding swish. What a frightfully divine spectacle: the mighty cloak fanned all around him, serving as his regal and blackened wings. His mask…that mask was a deceitful shade of white. All unorthodox longings disappeared as quickly as they had come; the adolescent returned to her youth. The illusion had shattered.

The young girl fell to the crutch of her knees, hands grasped in desperate prayer, gaze swimming in a dark realization. The terrifying _thing_ stood proudly to his full and intimidating height, not sparing an inch, staring down. She squirmed and cried beneath his burning gaze; eyes of morbid gold sliced the darkness and her flesh, all at once. She struggled not to faint. It was hopeless. She was far past the point of any return. Her flowing veins seemed to freeze over. She fatigued, complexion lightening to a deadly pale…drying out…her heart so charred, assuming a corpse's.

"BEHOLD! Don Juan Triumphs! You see, dear child, I am very much like Don Juan. I am a master of sorts—music, magic, and more! Ah, I am a slave, catering to the dead! Slaving to those unfaithful dead! And you…you have answered Don Juan's call! Ah—he is forever your master, now! Purge the life you once knew; shun all false hope for light! No, my bride…you cannot serve two masters!"

"Oh, mercy! Have mercy on me! Please! F-f-f-free me! I-I…"

Had her pulse not slowed to a reverent beat, she might have had a heart attack (despite being _just_ over sixteen years of age).

The girl slid backwards, shedding her bleeding tears, cowering in Don Juan's horrifying shadow. She cringed. She sobbed and prayed. Her throat was parched. The floor was damp and musky, a tangle of skirts plastered to her limbs. A coffin lazily leaned against one of four walls; until now, she hadn't noticed. Like a lion, gaining on its wounded prey, the Phantom slithered towards her with a ghostly elegance—and intentions of Eve's tempting Serpent. Mercy? She spoke of mercy? Such a thing was long time forgotten by her master.

"Ah! You are frightened! You tremble in this abyss! And yet, you know nothing of true horror! TRUE DEMONS! Horror, horror, horror! All in good time…"

Striking the poor organ with vengeful fists, arms extended mockingly to the Heavens he had never known, "Behold: Don Juan!"

The faintest illumination ignited, as if by magical command—leaving his white mask in the girl's wake. The starch white was expressionless and cold; but those fiery eyes…they whispered his every heartache. They told the Ghost's tragic love story.

The embittered monster growled and snickered, cherishing such sweet revenge, savoring every expression that wilted those adorable features of her's. Heavy boots slammed against the stone, as he approached. A bony finger hooked the girl's sunken chin, twisting it up in a challenge. A waterfall of tears drenched the satin of his glove. Tears…curse him! Now, his hands were stained! Yes, he had murdered in the coldest of blood.

The creature freed her chin in a harsh motion, stepping back, willing her to drink him in. He stood beneath a _holy_ shaft of light, tearing the chaste white disguise from corrupt flesh, chuckling as he did so. She paled, any and all remaining blood quickly being evaporated.

"WHY, YOU LOOK AS THOUGH YOU'VE SET EYES UPON A GHOST!"

Fragile wrists were completely enveloped by two sets of sickly long fingers. His face (or lack of) drew intimately near to the wailing girl, the stench of breath burning her alive. A blood curdling scream. Sardonic laughter flooded the underworld…cruel, maniacal laughter.

"Ah! I am a handsome fellow, eh?"

Never had she seen a more gruesome, more monstrous sight, indeed! His face was what the most ugly of legends—and nightmares—are composed of. No nose! No skin! This was no angel! This was no man! It was a corpse! It was a living corpse! Oh, the horror! She had wedded her young soul to a hideous and ghastly corpse! And now, she would be her corpse's dead bride!

"Alas! You have seen me! A pity, for she who sees me—is Erik's! Forever!"

With a strangled, choked sound, the Phantom heaved the weeping girl from the floor's stone; skeletal, gloved fingers—cold as death—wrapped the damsel's shoulders. He tossed her behind a locked door, as a pouting child might disregard a long-forgotten and outgrown plaything. Forever. Erik pocketed the ugly skeleton key that was engraved with Death's head; it would be five years, at best, until any such key would be of use. And she, Erik thought…she was rightfully caged.

Yes; she would pound, cry, and pray;_ they_ _all_ would.

"PLEASE! Free me! PLEASE! Oh, I'm so frightened! Won't you grant me mercy? Please, ERIK…I-I-I don't want to die! I have much to life for…" Nothing. "Y-y-you MONSTER! Demon of Hell! Why must you deny mercy? HELP! HELP ME, SOMEBODY, PLEASE!"

She sobbed, balled fists crashing onto the door in a vicious tantrum. She clobbered and beat the chipped wood, until exhaustion called…hands soon no more than a bloody pulp…and still, she fought and fought for life…with no avail. (Why, she could only despair, had this door been possibly chipped? Though, the thought quickly abandoned her mind.)

All cries were purely in vain: the Requiem Mass simply intensified beyond the Louis-Philippe door. Beyond her prison. The Requiem Mass; was this…funeral march…meant for her? Was it pounding out in her very name? Her tears renewed at such a thought.

She tasted the sweet nectar of Hope—for a fleeting, slowly fading moment. A most beautiful voice mated with her requiem…almost wantonly—weeping all mankind's sorrows away. Oh! Too suddenly, she found herself aching to weep alongside her poor, unhappy monster! These tears, they were for Erik!

Then:

The voice deepened, once again, assuming that of a demon. Satan! Had she died, and Satan had come to claim her spirit, as his own? The ridiculously young girl, this terrified creature, tumbled away from the door and music. Deep down, she knew, that voice belonged not to Satan…no, it belonged to a much more terrifying (much more merciless) demon. Erik.

"BURN, BURN, in Erik's wake! FOR ME! Feel his pain! Despair! ERIK'S MUSIC! I AM DON JUAN TRIUMPHANT—and you: my dead wife!"

She turned, ever so slowly, ever so carefully. Trembling, a pair of swollen eyes drank in her chamber, as she adjusted to the blaring brightness. Their heavy lids fought to stay open.

And it truly was her chamber…her tomb, her selpcher…

The tale hadn't lied; it was a bloody chamber. A gruesome, massacre…a massacre of all things beautiful…

Up, she looked: _'DIES IRAE' _had been painted, over and over, in the richest of all scarlets, large and proudly…lusciously spread across the entire, miserable Louis-Philippe archway. Death's threshold; the_ final_ threshold. Truly, her bloody chamber was morbidly stunning; was her master an accomplished artist, as well?

Too humbly, Erik serenaded his bride:

_"Low I kneel, with heart submission,_

_see, like ashes, my contrition; help me in my last condition."_

Erik's spine stiffened, and the Requiem Mass slowed—as only a dying heartbeat would. Far beyond the Louis-Philippe door, a piercing cry erupted from the shallow depth of spiritless lungs. The girl, the child, Erik's bride: she'd been allowed the mercy she blindly had sought.

_"Amen."_

_

* * *

_

_"My poor, poor, child. Too long, far too long…you have wandered…"_

An exquisite melody gently graced the young maiden's ears, like the charming flutter of an angel's wing. She was a rare beauty, auburn eyes as wide and innocent as her heart. In contrast, it was a dark night—much like all others she had come to know.

Christine Daaé sobbed a final farewell, rising from her beloved papa's marker. She brushed away the snowflakes that fell across the airy lace of her skirts. It was well past midnight; Christine knew visiting a graveyard at such a late hour was far from wise, but she'd felt the compelling need to speak to her papa…reside in his missed presence, even if the comfort was merely a chilling and unfeeling stone.

The wind whispered her name, that_ music_ growing in power.

_"Christine…"_

Christine collapsed to weakened knees with a gasp, clutching the scarlet cloak around her demure shape. She was a victim to the night's shivery draft and icy music.

_"Oh, Christine…come…at last…"_

It was so cold, and the music seemed to melt away the icicles which relentlessly clung to her soul. A sudden and almost unnatural gust of wind groaned out, catching Christine by surprise; luscious curls flowed around her slenderness in an erratic cyclone. Her teary, cinnamon gaze searched about for the mysterious composer. A genius! An angel of music! Christine stepped around her papa's lone gravestone with a ballerina's grace, fingers grazing over its cold surface, embracing his memory. So long ago, it seemed so long ago, he had promised her…

_"Tonight, within this blackened hour…our crossed stars realign."_

* * *

_"We will make music that the world will love forever. Take the last step to me. To your destiny…"_

Christine's breath pierced the cold in a swirling cloud.

_"To immortality…"_

Her heels chirped merrily against the chateau's stone, rosy lips trembling—though, far more from awe and anticipation than terror. She moved through the infinite halls at a brisk pace, the enchanting music being her one light. It seemed to maneuver _with_ Christine. No; it seemed to _grasp_ Christine within a possessive clutch. She was putty in its ghostly hands, no doubt; she felt the melody tickle the soles of her feet, breathe through her chocolate mane in a gentle storm…kiss her cherry lips. Her cheeks polished a matching red. The adorable voice sang, once again, far louder now, losing itself in the climax of glorious melody.

Christine spun down the circular stairwell—entering the underground lair—clinging to the stone wall's damp curve for guidance. Her cloak danced behind beautifully. Christine cried out, as she found her limbs tangle in a web's silk. Oh, icky! The hurried pitter-patter of a rat fled past her, small feet drumming…rushing just past Christine's legs, and in a most vile touch. What horror!

The darkness was blinding, leaving any and all vision to her imagination—yet Christine pursued the music which moaned her name. The music of an angel, she knew. She had prayed for her promised Angel of Music nearly ten years. This…it was her calling.

* * *

A magnificent creature, clad in the blackest of black, sensually stroked the organ's ivory keys, as one would only a lover—milking the instrument of all its glory. A long cape draped across the broad expanse of his shoulders, flowing down his back's endless landscape, flitting at his heels. The leather boot tapped along in harmony—though, its sound was suffocated by the ever-growing music. A hovering chandelier appeared to magically float just above this vision, withering flames murmuring a hum. The chandelier was the one relief to his darkness; it circled and glowed around the organ, like a diva's spotlight…or, better yet, a slanted halo.

It was a beautiful nightmare.

Christine stepped nearer to the wonder, breath stolen and heart racing…threatening to burst free from her quaking chest; begging for intimate release. He…he could give her release.

The Phantom spoke, voice as deep as the very depths of Hell, yet with all the beauty of Heaven:

"Sing."

Silence; Christine couldn't find her voice.

"SING!" The lingering word seemed to echo all of Paris in a beastly roar, raping the very air she shared with him; the ancient chateau shook with vigor, threatening to crumble.

It wasn't until a silence befell, that Christine found she had wandered all the way to the voice's organ. She stared forward, dazed, dizzy…dreaming?

A gloved hand rose gracefully to his composition's faded parchment, sweeping across calligraphic words 'Don Juan Triumphant' in silent request. Christine raised her pretty chin in plea, inhaled a wholehearted breath, and:

"Your eyes see but my shadow. My heart is overflowing.

There's so much you could come to love. You've got my heart glowing.

Tenderly, you could see…my soul…"

The last note floated gently in a never ending and soulful melody. The shadow tensed, a rumbling sigh finding escape. His head fell back in sweet, sweet agony, eyes tightly drawn shut, lips murmuring foreign words of thanks. Had she known the language of Persia, Christine might have heard the Phantom sighing, "in this hour…I…am…born."

In surrender, those masterful hands melted from the instrument that he'd so sensually played. Christine's heart scrunched and burned at her master's reaction, though she understood not why. Her Angel of Music…had she displeased him? Surely that, alone, deserved death! Christine blinked away imminent tears, hating herself and feeling foolish. Entirely unworthy of such brilliance.

"Oh, Angel…I-I-I…"

"Sing…Angel of Music! Sing your soul out; for your MASTER and he alone!"

Christine gasped, as it dawned. She splayed a lifeless hand across her thundering breasts, wondering if she would too soon wake. This was her hour; the hour she had waited nearly a lifetime for.

"SING, ANGEL OF MUSIC, FOR ME! YOUR MASTER!"

Christine jumped back at the jarring surprise of his voice. The music began, escorting her charming song:

"Your eyes see but my shadow. My heart is overflowing.

There's so much you could come to love, but you're content not knowing.

Tenderly…you could see…

my soul…"

"Non! With SOUL! Alas! FEEL IT. MY music CONSUMES YOU! Wither _beneath_ me. Let me _feel you_, _touch_ _you_, through my MUSIC…_take you_ as MINE. Alas, alas! For…ON THIS NIGHT: DENIED AND STARVING MUSIC SHALL FEAST UPON YOUR AWAKENED FLESH!"

Christine shivered, a morbid thrill devouring her whole, song empowered.

"My master! See your heart!

I consent to losing my power, my soul is which you freely devour.

Trembling in your torrid ecstasy…I shall doubt not your power…

As I sacrifice this body, mind, soul…It's I you claim in our hour."

He sighed his satisfaction. The music silenced, and Christine whimpered at such torture…feeling orphaned and almost naked. Entirely exposed and vulnerable! How her master's music molded to every bend of her body! Blanketed her lonely soul! Surely, he wouldn't deny her! He couldn't. It was a perfect fit. A mis-match made in Heaven, one might say.

A haunting, and quite frightening, chuckle rang out, appreciating his blushing bride's innocence. So_ slowly_, oh, so_ painfully_ slow, the Phantom turned…revealing himself to his long-awaited angel, with such a sad, almost tragic reluctance. It was as if, he knew all too well, the merest sight of him would shatter the spell he'd so carefully woven; corrupt the angel which Christine had suddenly come to know. The angel she had come to accept. Another sigh escaped him, but one of humanly sorrow.

Truth be told, the Phantom wasn't truly a monster nor demon, but, quite simply, a misunderstood and unloved man. Music was his one lover, and all he'd ever wished for was to share it with an angel.

He had a muse without inspiration; a voice without a face. Erik's life's work, his masterpiece, his _Don Juan Triumphant_—would be complete, at long last! And lovely Christine Daaé, his Angel of Music, would bless his work with a final, sealing element to Don Juan's fate; an element that had always been missing: true beauty. Yes; _Don Juan Triumphant_ would be complete, and Erik would be put to rest.

Two lifetimes wouldn't have braced Christine for the spectacular mystery which met her eyes. This…strange, strange angel was nothing short of thrilling.

He swept hands through his slick, raven hair in agitated strokes. At last, the man spoke:

"Oh_…_my angel. You come at last! You…you have come to save me! Angel of Music: know that I am not Don Juan, a ghost, nor genius…I am Erik. And you, dearest songbird, are Erik's blessed face! The face of his song! You only shall know your poor, unhappy Erik…so long as you DO NOT QUESTION the MASK."

It was, then, that he stood, towering high above his Christine Daaé, tone viciously sharpened. Eyes! Were those possibly…eyes? Yellow orbs contrasted against the gloom, burning. Christine felt their heat.

"TOUCH THE MASK AND WOE UNTO YOU! NEVER WILL YOU ESCAPE THE DEMONS OF HELL! YOU…SHALL…BURN!" Then, spoken with a shamed whisper, "you would leave Erik no choice."

He sighed deeply, almost painfully. Cushioned, "So long as you obey, you shall LIVE to SERVE me, sing for me…my music, alone." As he'd commanded several moments ago, she withered beneath him; Erik secured her cloak's dropping wool, fingers lingering. "So much as fathom the mask…and you forever BELONG to Erik."

Christine's chin sank forward, submissively; face nodding her eternal vow, chocolate curls bouncing delightfully as she did so.

"Mine." Erik blushed a devilish red; she was quite beautiful. He, too, had been awakened that fateful night.

"Come to me, serve me…and Erik shall give you everything…" He knelt to her level. "My music…our flesh…"

Erik outlined her jaw line with the faintest of touches, barely making contact. Again, her chin dropped in defeat.

"Our minds…"

Christine leaned into his haunting touch, feeling lost in lucid slumber. He continued, silkily, "dreams…"

He ran a daring finger across the sweet seam of Christine's swollen lips; they parted at the Phantom's tentative touch. A weak sigh fled Christine.

"Our souls…are now…one."

Tears swelled her eyes; eyes that could drive Erik to insanity with their perfection. A few crystal beads escaped them, clinging to Christine's lush fan of lashes.

"In your eyes, I see you are hungry; you hunger…you desire the music…"

Sweeping inhumanly long and slightly parted fingers through her velvet web of curls, he finished with a seductive purr, "Erik is the music."

He rose. Almost gentlemanly, "Ah! Do forgive! I fear Erik has been rather rude! You see, it's been…well, never," Erik chuckled, amused by himself, "since Erik has had the pleasure of a house-guest. Allow me to formally introduce to you myself, won't you, my dear? I am Erik…and you, so lovely child?"

"Oh," Christine squeaked, realizing he'd asked her name, "Christine, Master. Christine Daaé."

Her charming voice was shaky and unsure (not to mention, devastatingly desperate and child like), her terror made evident. He frightened Christine beyond all repair, yet she would move both the stars and moon, if only to be granted of Erik's approval.

_Mon, Dieu!…_Christine's dazed and clouded mind hollered in frenzy. What was this? Lust? A rather unorthodox, yet genuine, recognition of finding…love? A bewitching spell? No! No spells, no witchcraft. Only Erik…and he was no Phantom. He was only Erik. Her poor, poor, unhappy Erik.

Or…had she, simply, found her promised Angel of Music, at last?

Christine might have died, had she known that Erik pondered matching thoughts. He bent a bit, outstretching a gloved hand for her taking. She eyed the tempting silk, and accepted with only a sheer moment's reluctance.

Pulling her from the dungeon's stone floor, near to his strangely_ cold _body, "oh…please, _Christine_, do call me Erik."

It was such a sad plea; Christine's heart swelled three sizes. And, not to mention, she would forever cherish the sound of her name…which Erik so perfectly recited. Unveiled longings and desires, stirred, once again, within Christine Daaé's unblemished soul.

"Erik…" she whispered, as if testing the music of his name.

"Oh, how I blush at your kindness! I fear that I never will tire of your heavenly voice! How very humbled I am! Never has another addressed your adoring corpse as Erik! No; he's been many things during his years…" A wholehearted sigh of a tired man, then, "Erik, now…for the _first_ _time_, being one of them."

A thick silence consumed both angels; Erik, sensually, stroked through her blanket of curls a final time.

Erik slid a glowing band of gold onto Christine's wedding finger; it burned. Christine cried out in painful anguish. She tugged at it, the condemning metal sizzling through her delicate and wedded flesh; it wouldn't budge. His ring: it was immovable. The fiery token gripped tighter unto Christine Daaé, nearly strangling her poor finger. Blood clotted around the ring's outskirts, digging deeper…deeper…deeper…deeper.

"Please! Erik…it…burns…"

And then…

Christine's pretty eyes rolled back, slender body spiraling into the arms of Erik's voice—almost in a dance—seeing nothing.

"Oh, Christine…"


	2. The Rosy Hours of Mazenderan

A Horrific Tale of the Phantom's Accursed Chamber: Part II - The Rosy Hours of Mazenderan

Erik's shadowy form swayed in a hypnotic and drugging dance, becoming one with his music. The two Masters of Music fused as one complete entity, feasting off each other's starved passion. Really, it was all too much; any mortal might have surrendered to such brilliance.

Christine collapsed beside his seated frame with a subtle whimper, breathless, staring up at her master through those large and oceanic eyes. Eyes so lovely, so pure…eyes that could drive even the sanest of men over madness' jagged edge. Those eyes would forever haunt Erik's dreams.

The music ended painfully quick; tiny hands knotted within the rugged material of Erik's fine cloak, desperately twisting and tugging. A masculine sigh sounded out, as the Phantom nimbly peeled away her tangled limbs, one by one—as though slapping a child's hand, which was robbing the cookie jar of its forbidden sweets. Christine's demure shape didn't hesitate to violently shudder and quake at such rejection, as if she was an addict, suffering withdrawal's evil wrath—craving his music. There was no cure for such a condition; there was, quite simply…music.

"You tremble," chuckled the suave, slick voice.

"Won't you play, for me?"

"You desire the music, sweet child?"

"Very much so. You know quite well…the power which your music reins over me." Christine's face bent forward, with a stinging blush, before finishing, "You, Erik…you are music…"

"Yes, Christine, as are you," Erik breathed through a thick rasp. "…you, Christine…you are…MY…music."

A strong pair of sickly elegant arms encased Christine within a possessive clutch, drawing her into a sturdy and tempting wall of flesh. "Forever…MINE alone."

"Yours alone," Christine shakily recited, intoxicated and half awake.

Her pretty face hid within the double-breasted coat's meticulous folds, nuzzling the man's rising and sinking chest. She inhaled Erik; an exotic blend of spices and pine. A gloved hand gingerly patted the top of her velvet curls; he continued his sweet musical ministrations, petting his grateful Christine with deft fingertips, and she purred in delight.

"My pet, you enjoy Erik's caress, do you?" Erik felt her nod feverishly into his hardened chest, grasping at his cravat, clawing…almost wantonly…like a true, untamed animal.

"Very well."

Empowered and intrigued, Erik collected Christine from the cold floor in an effortless motion, cradling her intimately near. She shrieked a bit, holding on for dear life.

The organ rattled and groaned out echoing notes, as Christine was thrown on top of their explicitly violated keys. The ivory was still luke-warm…still heated from Erik's attention…as they dug into Christine's squirming bottom. Erik gazed down, his eyes of gold undressing Christine without shame. She quivered, returning his suggestive stare; both sets of eyes were heavy, seething with desire.

"Christine…my Christine…Erik shall deny you nothing. Truly, we are one."

* * *

Christine woke with a start, forehead broken out in a film of sweat. She blushed mercilessly, and arranged her bubbly skirts in an attractive way. Christine madly wiped at her parted mouth; a long, long stream of…drool…swung from her chin, and onto his…organ! His music—it had coaxed her into the erotic realm of slumber.

She smiled up at Erik's regal, hunched form, which was hard at work (composing _Don Juan Triumphant_, no doubt). Her sleepy sigh told Erik she had woke. He glanced over his shoulder's elegant dip and smiled beautifully; the charming and rounded apples of Christine's cheeks were polished a brutal red. Oh, it had seemed_ so_ real…so very, very, painfully real…

Erik chanced a desperate look at the yawning soprano; it was his turn to blush.

Yes.

God in Heaven, Erik _adored_ Christine Daaé.

* * *

Perhaps, her youth was to blame. Christine had barely peaked into her imminent womanhood, and was, without doubt, painfully naïve. She was a young and an inexperienced player within the dangerous realm of adulthood; though, she was not entirely ignorant to such a thing. First hand, Christine had witnessed love within its truest, most pure and unblemished form. Christine's mother had sacrificed herself upon bringing her into this world. The limitless devotion, the undying love, Christine's Papa had expressed for his late wife hadn't gone unnoticed.

Then…there dwelled the other half of love; a half, far more a mystery to Christine than the first: _desire_. Yes; she had _seen_ the transcending love between husband and wife, a faithfulness which knew no boundaries, time and time again. But, with her mother's absence to blame, desire remained a very exotic, very terrifying and foreign thing.

Foreign, that is, until an enchanting melody had whispered her name, carrying her to a land, far, far away, embracing Christine within its unyielding, musical clutch—crying out with an Angel's voice—yet, with the intent of something much less than divine. To Christine's pitiful understanding, desire was an acceptable, even cherished thing amongst a _wedded_ man and lady—when paired with love. And yet, the smoldering stranger, the dark creature, who she had committed to addressing as master, was tainting Christine's conception of adulthood, with each and every soulful aria he dared sing.

Quite possibly, it was the orphaned soprano, imprisoned within a lonely, neglected and abandoned soul, which was inevitably responsible for such selfless submission. For nearly a decade, there had been an undeniable void lurking within the debris of Christine's shattered soul. Alongside her papa's earthly remains, her musical inspiration and passion had been long time buried.

What ever the reason be, it had been only a matter of dark nights and intoxicating lessons. Christine quickly found herself becoming inseparable to her mysterious and strange, masked master. Christine knew, all too well: it wasn't merely lust that bound her to this Erik, nor the unquenchable, and aching hunger for humanly comfort. There was more. Much, much more…and Christine was slowly, gradually, unveiling the bare truth of it all. No. There were no Christine and Erik…there was only music.

Yes; it was their mutual passion, their shared love for everything music, which had united their two, opposite souls as one. His was a blackened soul, creased by the burden of time and ill fate. Christine's soul, however, was warm, light, and blessed—knowing only goodness over her limited years of life. And, he'd lived far too many years than he desired; the sorrow, embedded deeply within the fire of his music, spoke for Erik. Erik may have thought Christine Daaé wasn't capable of hearing beyond the outer shell of his song, and into the deep, tortured depths of his soul.

Erik had thought wrong.

In truth, his haunted music was a vivid, lustrous portal to the very pit of what was Erik.

Her Angel of Music…he was Christine's inspiration and muse. He was her master and maestro. He was her idol. He was music. Erik was Christine's mentor…guiding her…in far more ways than one. Yes, he had shared with Christine the dangerous secrets of music…though, she was slowly discovering…he was freeing the hidden secrets of her own heart, as well.

Such an attachment could only end in tragedy, the two reluctant angels knew. Devastation…for both Erik and Christine. Never could such immaculate beauty be replaced; she, truly was, a living, breathing angel…in Erik's smitten eyes. An Angel of Music.

Not so long ago, Erik had promised his wide-eyed angel, "So long as you don't fathom the mystery of the mask, you shall only serve Erik…his music." Yes; ruthlessly, he had declared to the trembling Christine Daaé, "So much as fathom the mask…and you forever BELONG to Erik."

Mask or no mask; with each passing night, Erik's promise was losing meaning, and dangerously fast.

Christine had grown a profound and immeasurable connection to this Angel, maestro, and master. And yet, she found herself feeling as empty as before—if not more so. Why…Christine could only inwardly scream.

Such a scream was in vain. Within the very pit of her conflicted soul, Christine knew the reason for such emptiness.

Erik…he was a stranger.

* * *

It was as if music was of its own language, Christine and Erik being the only two understanding its melodic tongue. Undoubtedly, the true essence of music was foreign to anyone else, aside from Erik.

Rarely did the two angels speak; for, within Apollo's Lyre, speech was wasted and unheard. There was only music.

Christine hardly slept; she had once been such a passionate dreamer. Within dreams, her Angel of Music would come, sweeping and wooing her away with the sheer beauty him. After Erik, she no longer sought after dreams. In flesh and blood, she had found her promised angel, at last.

Hardly did Christine part from Erik's haunting domain. Each night, she loyally returned to her master's heel—and, each night, Christine found herself abandoning the light she once cherished so dearly, earlier and earlier—dwelling within Erik's underworld, later and later…

* * *

She wasn't concentrating, and he wasn't happy; not the least bit.

"NO, NO, NO, NO!"

Christine shrank back—though, far more from the horror of ever displeasing Erik, than from fright.

Timidly, her chin lifted, and she locked his piercing stare. A stare so pungent, Christine could only toss and turn beneath his glowing eyes; trapped beneath such a stare, she felt exposed, naked, and vulnerable. It wasn't until she peered down, from under her lush fan of raven lashes, which she discovered Erik's long finger curled around her chin…possessively securing it in its rightful place. So badly, she ached to drop her chin and eyes in escape—not wanting to be burned—but, the icy and demanding touch prevented any such mercy.

Again, she submitted to the creature, as she so often did. Quite suddenly, his hardened gaze seemed to immensely soften.

Christine stuttered, almost dumbly, "I-I-I…"

Erik gazed into Christine's chocolate eyes, once again, losing himself within their rich and bountiful depths. He shivered at the unbridled passion he saw there. A passion so intense, it nearly mirrored his own. Christine and Erik—they weren't all too different, in truth. Both beautiful in their own, haunted ways.

"Sing…_with your soul,_ Christine…"

She nodded. His voice was suave, dark, and sincere. It was almost a plea, and Christine's brittle soul instantly thawed at the man's request. She inhaled a long breath, lungs stretching to their ever-growing limits:

"With open robes and bodies agonized,

Lost women writhed beneath that darkening sky;

There were sounds as of victims sacrificed:

Behind him all the dark was one long cry…"

The final note lingered indefinitely, as the dying music slowly met its end. Though, such an unnatural end it was! Christine had barely begun her nightly lesson. She knew Erik had composed pages, upon pages, upon pages (upon pages) of arias since their last meeting. Why the uncalled silence?

"Angel?" she whispered in apology.

Erik's masked fast twisted round in a sharp motion, settling on her questioning gaze. His eyes lightened at the wide spectrum of raw emotion that he found hidden there, his damaged heart melting…the slightest bit.

"You…it is you, who are the Angel…Christine…"

Again, the young prodigy shrank back—this time, in an attempt to mask a searing blush.

Erik rose, thrusting back from the organ. He propped up his majestic body weight with two gloved hands, staring forward…seeing nothing. His face fell forward in a sudden agony, as he shook it with vigor, battling away some inner demon.

Staying completely averted, he spoke to Christine through a most gentle and soothing hum:

"Christine…the music…the passion of Don Juan which you so flawlessly sing…you understand their _meanings_, _child_?"

"I…I suppose."

Erik shook his head in silent objection, and collapsed at his organ, exhaling a shaky and withheld sigh. He groaned and moaned beneath his shortened and frustrated breath, finding himself suddenly torn between right and wrong.

Yes, it was damnable, no doubt. How _very, very wrong_ he had been proved: Erik always believed _Don Juan Triumphant_ to sully and burn, even the very purest of ladies. Christine had sung the risqué demands of Don Juan…moaned out the pleasure, which Don Juan so often would thrust from his shameless women…and yet, his lovely Christine—miraculously, she remained nothing short of chaste. She was still his angel. Only Christine Daaé, always Christine Daaé.

Erik's masterly fingers raped the key's ivory with a most passionate, heartfelt melody. Christine nearly collapsed from the sheer power of it.

Her burning body constricted, as it too often did, and she sang—only to be cut short:

"Silence," he requested, darkly. "Allow Erik."

His song continued, now devoured by his chilling voice. That voice…those words…that music…

What a delectable orgy, his music was, of all things sensual!

"Words of desire,

Posses your gentle hearing.

Desires still slumbering,

Awakened in you, a quaking heart beating!"

Christine stood closely behind Erik's strong and seated form, drawn to him, the heat of his body nearly being her undoing. Erik continued the _unorthodox lesson_, as Christine's feathery touch ghosted over both his shoulders. He tensed further, sitting like a stone statue. Erik's churning muscles flexed beneath her steamy fingertips, whilst he played the organ with rough affection. The strong expanse of his back was rigid and sore, crying out for a lover's soothing affection. All the uncensored glory which an intimate touch seemed to offer.

"What fascination I hold over your senses.

Dear child, bid all defenses…

Where is there greater devotion?"

Christine stiffened, her daring touch easing painfully slow across Erik's entire back, making itself at home atop his opposite shoulder. Her fingers clawed at his cloak's thick material, as if digging the terrain of his back, in hopes of discovering some unknown treasure. A treasure she greedily felt the need to posses. She, too, was Erik's master.

Erik sneered at her needy and desperate touch, repeating, much more forcefully than before, _"Where is there greater devotion?"_

"SING! Tell me, Christine…just where is there greater devotion?" It was not a request; that was her cue:

"Don Juan, I don't know this emotion."

Erik rose with a sudden urgency. Erik knew: the word's of Amnita…those innocent and confused words…words he had written for only Christine Daaé's precious lips to be sung…spoke truth. Emotion and feeling: they were tied together, fueling each other. Just as Don Juan had taught Amnita the forbidden pleasures of men, he would teach Christine the forbidden pleasures of music…

He sang with renewed purpose, voice deeper than ever before:

"My soul seeks no other future than you."

Erik's voice was raspy and husky with a tangible passion, victim to some undeniable, primal yearning:

"Ignited here, in my chest:

Time and fixed affection have made a roaring fire.

This unquenchable zest, that finds itself inside me…

Every day more terribly…

Increasing, blazing higher…"

It was a longing Erik could compose so well, yet one he had never dared pursue…nor truly wished to, until this very moment. Could he possibly…touch his sweet, sweet angel? Cross over…into the palpable, the forbidden?

Oh, Erik could; his humanity would be certain of this.

Two heavy hands planted themselves on the bare flesh of her shoulders, caressing; she shivered, as long and icy fingertips grazed and savored her velvety surface. Ironically, these deathly cold fingers seemed to _scorch _through her searing flesh. He drew barley there circles upon the tempting skin, not bothering to hide an elicit moan. Christine's tight posture let up, as she melted in his embrace. Erik hummed a hypnotic lullaby, his deep vocals massaging Christine. Lost within his tender touch and voice, she couldn't help but further sink into his ghostly hands.

For the first time, she knew Erik as a man.

Christine's eyes fluttered open in an attempt to break the spell. Her entire being withered beneath Don Juan's heated touch, as she pitifully whispered those poetic words of Amnita:

"_Erik…I don't know this emotion…"_

It wasn't until her master's pleasant warmth abandoned her quivering flesh, that Christine realized she had committed a Freudian slip…in Erik's name.

"It is a dangerous game which you dare play," the tortured man growled through his grinding jaw. Christine might have died from the richness of his words. Rich as they were…his voice was equally cold…so emotionless, disconnected…and empty.

"I am no Don Juan, Christine…though; don't tempt me, as Don Juan had tempted Amnita."

A deafening silence, then, "Amnita…she loved Don Juan, hadn't she, Erik?" It was such a precious question, her eyes brimming with hope.

Erik snarled at her words and stupidity, growing increasingly tiresome of the human race. He was beginning to question her divinity. He bent to her crouched level, his cloak sweeping over the stone ground in a charming flutter. Erik shot up to his full, intimidating height in a victorious motion—taking Christine with him.

Ensnaring Christine's wrists, he pinned her helpless body flush against his mighty organ. (Eww…don't think that!) She battled his iron hold, but only in vain; it was poor competition against Erik's brute and immovable strength. Bodies and racing hearts pressed together, his starved masculinity feasting upon Christine.

Fear. It was only fear that engulfed her enlightening, cinnamon gems. Erik scowled, cursing himself to Hell: Christine trembling within his accursed arms…her graceful breath ragged, torn…amber curls plastered to perspiring and inflamed flesh…Erik had never felt more monstrous.

"Poor, poor, child! Forgive Erik! Erik forgets; you have yet to know the rest of Don Juan Triumphant! Erik has yet to compose it, you see! Though, when he does, dearest angel, Erik shall finally be allowed his rest!"

The siren was testing his sanity, alongside a life-long, suppressed sexuality. Did the poor_ thing_ truly not know? Was she really so terribly blinded?

Erik released Christine, a bit too roughly, stepping back, his gaze burning through the thin barrier of her flesh.

"Yes, yes…Don Juan and I…we shall be locked away in my coffin, never to again wake. It is why you are here, you see…you, Christine, are Erik's release."

"W-w-what happens…with Don Juan and his love?"

Erik sighed painfully deep. He ran a single fingertip down the tear-stained porcelain of Christine's cheek, following its slight curve…outlining her heart-shaped jaw line in the deftest and sweetest touch…finally, tracing tentatively over the inviting collarbone he longed to worship.

Then, Christine's heart skipped a beat: Erik buried weeping eyes within her delicious mane of curls, not hesitating to stroke Christine's damp cheeks. Inhumanly long fingers lost themselves within the drenched strands of silk. Erik inhaled her sweet, sweet femininity. Oh, how he tried to smother those pathetic sobs of his! Why did Christine—speaking of love—so quickly break Erik's heart?

Turning away, head bowed, "They do not end happily ever after, Erik assures."

"Though, you are not Don Juan! You told me so, yourself! And, I…I am not Amnita ."

"Go! GO NOW! Get AWAY FROM ERIK! GET AWAY…OR SUFFER THE SAME CURSED FATE AS AMNITA!"

Again, he grabbed hold of Christine. "Yes, Christine, yes! CURSED FATE! Shall I spoil your false love story?" She dropped to her knees, face sinking behind the upright wall of bare legs, hiding from Erik. Hiding from herself…from everyone. To Christine's horror, such childish antics seemed only to further enrage her hovering beast…that loomed and towered before her. Christine cowered underneath his shadow's grim shade.

A loud, sinister chuckle rang out, spilling over the ragged sea-cliffs, and further yet.

Laughing manically and speaking, _all at once_:

"Don Juan…he kills his poor, poor, foolish, _blind _Amnita! With a pillow, he does! Ah! Such a perverse crime, it is! For, after Don Juan makes her his own…much like I have seemed to make you, _Christine_…he smothers the breath from those pretty lips! Ah!…and what pretty lips, they WERE."

"You are frightening me so! Why? Do you wish me to fear you! To…to hate you?"

Erik moved towards her, hissing, seeming to float across the dungeon's stone ground with a haunting grace, just as a true phantom might have. She crawled backwards, like a hermit; though she longed, with everything in her, that she had a hermit's luxury: a shell to hide.

"You know nothing of me. You know nothing or true fright nor horrors. You know nothing of your poor, unhappy Erik. Your MASTER."

She peered up at this poor, unhappy Erik…who was trying, so very hard, to be the vilest of monsters; and yet Christine, quite simply, saw a man.

"Let me," she whispered.

_"WHAT?"_

"Then, let me, I say!" His gaze was unusually hot, dampening her bravery a bit. "Let me know you, Erik! Y-you know me! My soul; I have given it to you, entirely, and you alone! Through the splendor of your music, Erik!"

He turned away, his facade weakening. Crumbling…threatening to give way. All he wanted was to hug and hold her…perhaps, even dare press a kiss to her charming forehead. She spoke blindly! If only she saw what lay beyond the mask…Christine would curse and damn the passionate words she had mindlessly vowed.

"What are you hiding, Erik? What lies_ behind _that _mask _of yours? I have right to know. You have seen me mask-less, defenseless…at my very rawest and most vulnerable!"

Dripping with mockery, "Oh, I have, have I?"

"Yes," she squeaked, clearly regretting the fiery words she had spoken.

For a fleeting and indescribable moment, Erik's remaining soul caved in.

"Why, Christine, why?" Tears blurred the beautiful vision kneeling before him…that of an angel. He longed to tear away the mask, as to wipe the tears which cruelly distorted such perfection. Christine…Erik feared…he had grown to love her. These tears: they were shed for Erik. They were shed for Christine. They were tears shed on behalf their star-crossed fate.

Tears!

"Why," he recited a final time, though as a heartbroken man.

"Because…"

"You must tell your Erik."

"Because…"

"Tell, tell! Do tell!"

"Erik, I-I…"

"Come now; be out with it! Tell, Christine, do tell! Why must you speak such _spirited _words to your unhappy Erik?"

"I love you. "

He laughed. He cackled. Then, he laugh some more…he laughed and laughed, almost to the point of tears. Perhaps, rest was nearer than imagined; for, Erik was destined to drown in those tears.

"Do you, now?"

"I swear it! I know not much of such a thing, as love! But, you, Erik…never have I felt this way!" Sadly, shyly, and blushing, "Not for anyone."

"Oh! HA-HA-HA! Your words! How true they are! I shall grant you your wish, dear love! Oh, my! No, no, no, no…you don't lie! Not a dishonest bone in that body of yours, there isn't! Erik does promise: you shan't ever feel_ this_ way…no, _not about anyone_."

His hands found the ties of his blackened mask, a small grin pulling at those twisted lips.

Poor Christine; she returned his sly grin, though one of pure innocence, her heart madly fluttering. "Oh, Erik! What ever shall I think…when I see that face of yours?"

"You…will…just…_die_."

Her hands grasped together, wringing in giddy and girlish anticipation, as she stared up at her beloved crush. Her menacing childhood sweetheart! A man, she was quite sure, she had come to fully love.

"BEHOLD: DON JUAN!"

She met eyes with her _true _lover, at long last—a deafening, blood curdling scream assaulted all of Paris…all of mankind.

He was so, so, so wonderfully ugly. As beautiful as Erik's music was, that face…was equally hideous, if not more so!

It had rightfully earned hibernation: A protruding and cracked skull with wide craters—which indented the infertile ground of his face…or lack of—shriveled skin, bulging veins, splintered features…it was grotesque. A terrible skeletal grin spread wide across malformed lips. Lips…? Were those…possibly lips? So thin…so pasty…and curved into sunken gums! His nose was missing! There were no cheekbones to playfully, flirtatiously pinch! No flesh to lovingly stroke! There was only…Death's head. Death's head…it was on fire and blazing!

"Oh…oh, God, no…no…this…it cannot be…real…"

"Oh, but it is, it is, it is! Tell Erik now, Christine Daaé! Speak your sweet words of love, for your adoring corpse!"

Her eyes glazed over, and she bit back the bitter flavor of quickly forming bile.

Erik laughed until his stomach burned, then he laughed some more. Really…it was all too perfect. She crawled away, panting, never again planning to return to her master's side. Though, such a futile escape was instantly cut short:

"THERE IS NO ESCAPING," gesturing Death's Head, he continued, in a roar, "THIS!"

Hands of Death flipped Christine over, submissively, onto her back. There, she laid in a vulnerable and wanton position, powerless…staring up…at him. Erik—a man—disguising a paining heart with madness.

"Tell me, Christine! Tell, tell, tell! Confess! Declare your love for Erik! Your loving corpse! No? Allow me, than, won't you?" Christine's eyes drew shut with intense force; she _prayed_ they would never again have to open.

Seemingly reading her tortured thoughts, "open! Open those pretty eyes! Erik is about to spill his wretched soul, and you shan't even gaze upon your beloved, BURNING husband?"

"Enough, Erik! You speak madness! I beg of you—" Her words were in vain, unheard by her bellowing monster; it was then, which Erik ensnared her wrists, drawing Christine intimately near. Her head and eyes lolled back—much more in agony than pain.

"Ah! I frighten you, do I? You enjoy Erik's caress, do you? Your hands, Christine—I demand those pretty hands!"

Christine's hands were forced upon the man's terrible face, nails digging deeply, raking at his sour flesh. Debris of skin clotted Christine's nails, and she screamed in disgusted horror; though, her fingers were forced deeper with each despairing cry, soon vanishing.

Magic.

Fresh blood seeped from beneath the ring's binding gold; it pooled and clotted about the unnatural, metal border in an unholy sea of red.

Oh!—Horror, horror, horror!

"You want to see! See! Feast your eyes; glut your soul on my cursed ugliness! Look at Erik's face! Now you know the face of the voice! You were not content to hear me, eh?"

Thin fingers—which smelt of death—knotted within Christine's mane of curls, twisting and tugging, shedding no mercy…whilst Erik dominated his distressed damsel…behaving as the wretched master which he'd truly come to be. In the end, the Phantom was Christine Daaé's tragic creation.

"Stop this, at once! E-E-Erik…p-p-please. I-I-I…" Erik freed the girl in a sudden motion, causing Christine to tumble backwards. She could only _stare up_ at her dark fate.

"I-I…"

"Loved you! There! Rejoice, at once! Hark! The angels do sing! Oh, what sweet release! Erik has said it, at last!"

She squirmed, her eyes and mouth opened wide, gaping. "Erik…h-h-he loved you, Christine Daaé! Painfully much, dare I say! I loved you! But, you are no angel, I see now! Angels do not deceive, do not lie, nor _lust!_"

She blushed.

"You…you are Pandora! A naive child! Oh, poor, poor, Christine, my love! Alas! My faith in you has shattered! Where have your wings gone to?"

"Erik! Stop this, at once!"

"Non! It is you who must stop it! You! You loved poor Erik blindly! BLINDLY!"

"N-n-not true," she sputtered, fearing for her life.

Erik was silent for a damning moment. He tapped his bony, skinless chin in intense thought and reckoning, then, stated far too coolly, "Alas! How right you are."

The monster turned towards his organ—the original source of Christine Daaé's undying love for her _Erik_. The tool which had once inspired a silenced voice, returning beauty to Christine's life; spirit into her soulless song.

"No, Christine, no," he sighed with half a soul. "You are not blinded. Not _blind_…"

A dim illumination ignited, then, as if by magic. He turned sharply towards the heaving child, nearly out of breath, a candle gingerly balancing on top his starch-white palm. Erik waved the dancing flame, sardonically, dangerously near to her widened eyes.

He spoke, as one would only to an amused infant, "OoOOooh! Quite astonishing, is it not! BEHOLD: abra-cadabra! See, see! Erik: he is a magician, as well! Hokus, pokus! My, my, my, Christine! Look at those radiant features! Such a beauty, you are. AH! Look here: hail the world's first ventriloquist! See how I speak to you…my lips unmoving and stiffer than death!"

The wavering flame washed over the ruined landscape of Erik's curse, deepening the hollow of his bones, yet enhancing the sadness of his eyes. She saw his humanity. Within that lost, ghoulish, and almost childish gaze of his, she'd found her Erik. Love…what was love, anyways? Such a silly and juvenile thing, it was proving to be…Christine inwardly giggled, whilst Erik impressed her with his suave slight of hand. His 'magical' tricks.

"I know the secret," she lightly snorted, gesturing his pitiful skills as an accomplished magician. The candle's flame perished, then ignited, perished…then…ignited…perished…ignited…to the point of utter exhaustion. She had seen this dumb trick, a time or two before.

Christine smiled her brightest smile yet, gazing deeply in Erik's eyes of shimmering gold, finding his lonely soul. Just maybe, together, they could grow up.

"I too, know the secret, dearest songbird. Though, in the horrendous event that Erik's secrets cease to be Erik's secrets…it shall be a poor lookout for a goodly number of your race."

"My what?"

"Race, child."

"Erik, please, end this madness. I'm terribly frightened."

Erik sighed, gathered his shattered composure, blowing out the candle's flame with a shallow puff of breath. A demonic voice echoed, distant and faded, tucked within the eerie depths of foreboding darkness, "Christine, oh, Christine, Christine. You truly weren't blind. Non, non."

Again, the candle flickered wildly, flame much hungrier than ever before.

"Now…" Erik brought that wildfire dangerously near to Christine; it bit the very tip of her adorable and upturned, slightly freckled nose.

"Ouch! E-Erik! Goodness!" she exclaimed, in a pout. She continued, arms crossed menacingly beneath her plump chest's weight, "That…HURT!" Erik sighed; absorbed in her youth, rosy lips upturned…never had she looked more beautiful. His remaining heart soared to indefinite heights; heights, Erik hadn't known it could reach.

And yet, the winking flame came closer…closer…closer…closing in on his angel.

"Erik? What, pray, are you doing?"

"Now, Christine, my dearest…you…shall know…"

"By, God! Mercy! N-N-N-O…"

It was then, Erik said aloud, with such regal and brilliant authority, "Let there be dark." And there was dark.

With a wicked hiss, Christine saw nothing. She screamed, hollered, wailed, and cried. The hovering chandelier candles burst into devilish flames, its light more glorious than ever before. The eager fire crackled sinisterly. Like Hell's starved flames, it glowed!

"True blindness."

Yes, Christine saw _nothing_. Nothing. No light, no eyes of shimmering gold, nor Death's flaming Head. Not even shadows. Only darkness' despair. The smoldering wax dripped from her eyes, cascading down her flushed cheeks, just as black, raven tears might have. They continued their lazy descent, trickling down the delicate curve of her chin in a dark waterfall. Christine stared _straight through_ Erik's blazing sockets of yellow, seeing absolutely…_nothing_.

"You see, Christine." He chuckled, at his wonderfully ironic choice of words (you see), completing his_ final _thoughts, "Now, you can love your Erik. His face no longer shall haunt you, Christine. Yes; I can love you, and you can love me! LOVE! LOVE ME, CHRISTINE, FOR ME! FOR ERIK! Now, you shall! Yes! You, Christine, shall love Erik—FOREVER! And, he alone—within this world, and the next! You see, charming songbird: we are of the immortals! For, this terrible face of death—it shan't haunt you, ever again!"

Pools of scarlet dripped from her sightless eyes, as they blended flawlessly with the seething wax, which hadn't yet ceased in sizzling; in a moment's time, Christine's pretty face had been painted in generous streams of raven-red.

"Oh, sweet, sweet Christine! Alas! Tears of black and red descend upon you! You shan't cry! Weeping angel! We are together now! Erik shall see that no harm may come of you."

Erik collected his weeping bride from the musky stone, and brought forth the infamous skeleton key, marching all too proudly to the Louis-Philippe doorway. Painfully, the tattered door creaked open in response to its master's swift touch, as Erik kicked at it with his boot-wrapped heel. The unhappy bride-to-be was kicking and screaming, tossing and turning all the while. He sighed, thin arms cradling her waist and bottom, seemingly swallowing her whole, carrying Christine through the accursed chamber's archway…bridal-style.

"Ah—Hello, Milady's!" Erik merrily greeted the room and its slumbering guests.

Then:

"You women are rather inquisitive creatures," Erik exclaimed, gesturing his poor, poor, dead wives; though, Christine…she saw _nothing_. For eternity, she would only see him, the unhappy face of the voice. "It was an easy bargain, my child. YOU'VE SEEN ME! And I, Christine, am a _man_ of my word! YOU BELONG TO ERIK…FOREVER!"

Erik deposited his squirming and squalling Christine Daaé, humming a most soothing Persian lullaby, slamming shut the Louis-Philippe door with a teary, "Farewell."

She clobbered the Louis-Philippe door with all her might, clumsily stumbling and tripping over her pitiful self—blindness claiming the very best of her.

"Erik has a final confession: he has, in truth, completed his _Don Juan Triumphant, _indeed! And now, I shall sleep." Erik continued, a bit annoyed and grumbling, much like the beast he was _thought _to be, "I am rather tired, my dears."

And, like _they all_ had, Christine pounded, screamed, and cried. "HELP! It hurts, Papa! OH—it burns, so terribly! Papa, Papa, Papa! HELP! WHY, Papa, WHY? Papa…"

"Good-night, Christine Daaé. You have served Erik well. You sleep now, my Angel of Music."

The mildew covered and dingy coffin, which Christine hadn't failed to once notice, was kicked upright with a whole hearted sigh; like an Egyptian tomb, Erik crawled into the humble sanctuary, his death-box still fully propped and standing. Truly, he was very much like a well-preserved mummy…Erik couldn't help but contemplate. Far beyond rotted and ghastly; yet, remaining (remotely) dignified within his spiritless and fleshless form.

_'BANG!'_

The splintered coffin's lid was slammed shut, greeting its wildly anticipated guest with a most unsettling moan. _Don Juan Triumphant _snuggled up against Erik's thundering chest, embracing their far overdue fate. Their bittersweet release.

As if by _magic_, the coffin was locked and sealed shut with a painless _click_.

His black fate had been sealed.

Erik, the Phantom, the Ghost; he would die knowing what it was…to love, and, better yet…to be loved. Christine's little ears perked, eager for her master's heavenly music within their final moments. Though, Christine perceived nothing; no sights, no sounds, nor Requiem Mass—simply…darkness.

By command, DIES IRAE'S rose-red calligraphy streamed down the chamber's archway in a morbid and freely-flowing waterfall. The 'ink' rained down upon the beaten and damned. Christine stepped towards that curious dripping. Rain! Had she possibly ventured into the outdoors? And without ever leaving the catacombs…never having left this terrible room? But, no! Lovely curls of brown were drenched and stained! Christine's trembling hands combed through the royal mess, which she could not wholly perceive; this was no rain. This…discharge…was far too heated, much too thick…

It burned, searing through her very flesh…to the bone.

Her fingers spread wide, bloody globs of mucus webbing her parted digits.

DIES IRAE was a poison, within itself: its rhythmic dripping was everlasting, much like all of Erik's wonders—no; never would DIES IRAE cease to bleed. For her.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, drip…

It was only a matter of days, at most; being doomed to such a torturous melody…one was bound to surrender to Erik's madness…soon enough.

What an ingenious torture chamber, it was, indeed! As it featured a true Requiem Mass!

Drip, drip, drip…

Had Christine Daaé not been so very _blind-sighted_, she might have seen the magnificent, and towering forest of iron trees…its decades upon decades of victims, swinging mindlessly from those strongly-willed branches…to and fro…to and fro…to and fro…

Forever.

Don Juan had triumphed.


End file.
